


The August Series

by Daylyn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Reconciliation, Separations, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daylyn/pseuds/Daylyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes says good-bye before leaving for America.</p><p>This is first of a 5-part series that will capture moments in time, every other August, from 1912 to 1920 (from the time Holmes leaves for America through the aftermath of the Great War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 1912: Separation

Title: August 1912  
Author: Daylyn  
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes  
Pairing: Holmes/Watson  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Not mine, although actually in the public domain. No profit is intended.

Author’s Note: This is first of a 5-part series that will capture moments in time, every other August, from 1912 to 1920 (from the time Holmes leaves for America through the aftermath of the Great War. 

**August 1912: Separation**  
By Daylyn

I sat at my desk, reviewing my files, when there was a knock at the door and the maid stepped in.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” said she, “but there is a gentleman here who insists upon seeing you.”

“Tell him to make an appointment,” said I, knowing that I had little time before my next patient’s arrival and I then had to go on rounds.

“I did, sir. But he was most adamant. He insisted that you were the only one who could help him and that he had to see you immediately.”

“It will only take a few moments, Doctor, but there is no other who can assist me,” said a wizened, deformed old man, with white hair and a sharp face. He was carrying several volumes of books. The maid looked on in horror as he made his way into my consulting room.

“It’s quite all right, Betsy,” I said to her, dismissing her from the room. “I’ll see this gentleman now. Just ask Mrs. Fitzgerald to wait a few moments when she arrives.”

“If you’re certain, Doctor.”

I smiled at her. She gave a little curtsey and a bewildered look, then left the room.

I turned to my new patient. “What are you doing here, Holmes?”  
  
“Ah, Watson. My disguises fail me now.”

“I’ve seen this one before, Holmes, as well you know. In my former consulting room. It seems unlikely that you are trying to hide from me. So I ask again, what are you doing here, Holmes?”

His bright grey eyes looked directly into mine. No matter what his disguise, his remarkable eyes were always recognizable. “I’ve come to say good-bye, Watson.”

Of all the things he could have said, this was one I least expected. “What?” I asked dumbly.

“I’ve come to say good-bye. I’m leaving for America. My ship sails on the morning tide.”

My mind seemed to have stopped functioning. “But… why?” was the only thing I could think to say.

“I’ve been commissioned by the government to do a bit of… investigating. They needed an unknown agent to infiltrate an American organization, and I fit the bill.” He snorted, as if in disgust. “Mycroft would skin me alive if he knew I was here.”

I felt sick, numb, lost. “Why are you here?” I blurted out.

He met my eyes again. “I promised I would not disappear again without an explanation, and I cannot trust that any telegram I would send would be delivered.” He looked at the floor. “I know how hard those three years were for you, Watson. I will not do that to you again.”

“But, how can you leave? You’re retired. Living in Sussex. This is ridiculous.”

“No, Watson. It is… necessary.”

I looked at him sharply. “Whatever do you mean, Holmes?”

“Ah, Watson. There have been some accusations flying around of late. About me… you… us.” He looked at me directly again.

“I thought those rumors had been laid to rest when I remarried years ago,” I said hoarsely.

“New… gossip… has arisen. Mycroft thought it wise if I was to vacate myself from the country for a while.”

“I… see.” I tried to hide my hurt, but was, as usual, completely unsuccessful when it came to Holmes’s piercing gaze.

“Totally unfounded tales, Watson. There has only ever been one person for me.”

I looked at him in amazement, and then shook my head. “The completely selfish part of me is grateful for that, Holmes. But the rest of me wants to see you happy.”

“You have seen me happy, Watson,” he whispered. “I was happy for many years while we lived in Baker Street.”

I swallowed around the lump that appeared in my throat. “As was I, my friend. But the world would not let us be.”

“Yes. That is why I am leaving for America. Unfounded rumors will come back to haunt me or, even worse, to harm you. I think, instead, that it is time for me to leave the confines of merry old England and try my hand at espionage in the untamed New World.”

“Will it be dangerous?”

It is amazing how, even though I was 60 years old, Holmes could look at me and make me feel like a naïve youth.

“I’ll come with you then,” I blurted out. “Let me come and help.”

“Watson,” he said harshly, “you seriously would give up your practice, your wife, your very life here to come with me to America into Lord only knows what.”

I looked down into nothing and contemplated what such a decision would mean and how much I would lose. Then I looked at Sherlock Holmes sitting across from me and knew I could only make one choice. “Yes,” I said softly. “I would follow you.”

Holmes inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. When he looked at me again, there was a soft shimmer that I had only rarely seen. “It is enough to know that you would, Watson. No, I cannot allow it, my good fellow.” He waived away any protest I was about to make. “As I said,” Holmes continued, “I will not allow your life to be destroyed.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, examining each other, memorizing the other’s features, storing up our memories.

“I must go,” Holmes said quietly and stood.

I rose with him and engulfed him in a tight embrace. “Promise me you’ll come back,” I demanded.

“Watson—”

“Promise me!”

“I cannot know what will happen, Watson. You understand that.”

“No. I will not let you go, Holmes, unless you promise me. You have never outright broken your word to me when you’ve given it. If you promise, you will take better care. I cannot let you leave here knowing you will not likely return. Promise me, Holmes, that you will come back to me.”

He held me even tighter. “I promise,” he breathed, his voice breaking. Then he held my face and kissed me fiercely. Years of memories flooded back to me and I pulled him tighter still. I could taste the bitter tang of the spirit gum from his costume, but it made no difference. I kissed him back, just as desperately.

He broke away with a cry. Before I could even react he was out the door. I stood there, watching the empty space, until my maid appeared.

“Is everything all right, Doctor?” she asked me. I guess I looked rather stricken.

“I am fine,” I lied.

“And your patient?” she said, looking at the front door where Holmes had disappeared.

“Ah. It appears that I could not help him after all.”

She looked perplexed.

“Has my next patient arrived?” I enquired.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Send her in.”

The maid disappeared after giving a little curtsey. I sat at my desk and took a deep, shuddering breath. Then, with the taste of Sherlock Holmes still on my lips, I prepared to face my day.

 


	2. August 1912: Separation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes returns to Watson’s life on the eve of the war.

Title: August 1914: Reunion  
Author: Daylyn  
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes  
Pairing: Holmes/Watson  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine, although actually in the public domain. No profit is intended.

Summary: Holmes returns to Watson’s life on the eve of the war.

Author’s Note: This is a sequel to August 1912: Separation, and is the second in a 5-part series that will capture moments in time, every other August, from 1912 to 1920 (from the time Holmes leaves for America through the aftermath of the Great War. 

 

 

 **August 1914: Reunion**  
 _Part 2 of the August Series_  
By Daylyn

I could barely contain my excitement when I received the wire.

> Watson
> 
> Meet me at Harwich Station on 2 August with the car.  
>  The game is still afoot.
> 
> [signed] Altamont

I smiled broadly, for it was obvious that Altamont was an alias for my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes, returning to England after two years of secret work in America. I also rejoiced because he wished me to participate in whatever grand scheme he was planning.

I felt that twenty years of my life had just melted away, and I was transported back to the old days of our time in Baker Street. I was almost giddy with anticipation.

I informed my wife that I had business and may be away for a day or so. She looked at me suspiciously, but did not question me, for which I was grateful. After all, it was not that unusual for a doctor to spend significant time with a patient. Still believing that Holmes was in America, she had no inkling as to the true nature of my business.

I did, I admit, feel a sharp pang of guilt over my deception. Her dislike of Holmes was legendary; she had never forgiven him for my being shot during the matter of the three Garridebs. I fear that her resentment ran deeper, to an almost jealous competition for my affections. But I had never missed a direct summons from Sherlock Holmes to assist him on a case in over thirty years of our partnership, and I was not about to start.  
  
The train pulled into the station and I watched the passengers closely as they disembarked, my heart beating wildly. I saw him in the distance – tall, lanky, his hair shot with grey, and sporting a ridiculous goatee. I forced myself to calmly walk toward him.

A rare, genuine smile broke upon his face when he saw me, and I knew it matched the one on my own.

“There you are,” he exclaimed, clapping my shoulder. “You’ve brought the car, I trust?”

I nodded, unable to speak around the sudden lump in my throat.

He held my arm and led me across the platform. “Come,” said he. “We have much to do today, my friend. I’ll explain as you drive.”

Thus I found myself embroiled in Holmes’ adventure, assisting in the capture of the German spy. I was in a state of heightened excitement as we drove. I glanced at Holmes as he explained the plan and my role within, watching his long, thin fingers animate some point. I felt a thrill that I had not experienced in over a decade and a pang of wistful joy as I listened to my oldest, dearest friend. I was soon caught up in his plots and designs, and our actions were coordinated like in the old days.

We arrived at the widespread home, where it was agreed that I would wait in my little Ford, acting as the chauffeur, until Holmes gave me the signal to act. He mentally steeled himself and went to open the door, then turned to me and smiled. “It is awfully good to see you again, Watson,” said he, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The same, my dear friend.”

Holmes gave me a quick nod, and then went off to enact his strategy, which, I might add, worked perfectly.

Even our drive back to London, with our prisoner, Von Bork, tied and cursing in the spare seat of my little car, could not dampen my exhilaration at being in Holmes’ company again. We deposited the spy at Scotland Yard, we deposited his check at Holmes’ bank, and we deposited ourselves at Claridge Hotel, where we enjoyed a well deserved meal.

Over supper, Holmes told me some of his amazing tale, and how his undercover activities took him from London to Chicago, then to Buffalo and Ireland, and then finally back to England. As always, I loved to listen to my friend. I was amazed at how his great intellect, combined with his penchant for disguise, allowed him to so fully infiltrate these secret organizations.

“It must have been dangerous work,” said I at one point.

Holmes nodded, but then gave me a quick smile. “Yes, however, I took care, Watson. After all, I had promised you to return.”

I could feel myself flushing slightly as I remembered our last meeting and the vow I extracted from him, but I steadily held his gaze. “I am glad of it.”

He smiled again, almost involuntarily. “So am I.”

The air around us was suddenly thick with tension.

“I assume you must to hurry back to Mrs. Watson,” Holmes said, his voice hushed.

“No. I told her not to expect me.”

“Ah.” Holmes actually bit his lip. “Well then. Should we see the rooms the government has provided me, and have an after dinner drink? I think we could both unwind a bit after the excitement of the day.”

I swallowed and nodded. “Lead on, my friend.”

I barely had time to notice that we had entered a suite of rooms and were currently in the sitting room when Holmes turned, pushing me against the closed door and kissing me forcefully. I was momentarily stunned by the direct assault of his passion and failed to respond immediately. He pulled back, wrenching away from me and breathing heavily.

“My apologies, Watson,” said he before I could even move. “I realize that my advances must be unwelcome after all this time, and that your concern for your wife must take precedent and—”

I leapt toward him and grabbed his upper arms, bringing him to me. “Shut up, Holmes,” I admonished, but not unkindly, for I could see a smile start to form on his lips, which were soon preoccupied, for I crushed him to me and kissed him with all my desire. He moaned, lightly and beautifully.

I had long since come to terms with my dueling passions for Holmes and my vows to my wife. I was honest enough with myself to admit that my decision was not the proper one. We had married rather quickly; she was looking for stability and security after the unfortunate death of her prior husband and the financial catastrophe that it had entailed, and I was desperately attempting to quell rumors regarding Holmes and myself. True rumors, which was the crux of the matter, for our behavior, although a representation of honest feelings, was both illegal and condemned.

Holmes disagreed, vehemently, with my actions, but I could see no other solution to our dangerous dilemma. Holmes moved from London a few years later, unable to bear, he said, the memories of our shared rooms now that he was alone.

I had planned to remain committed to my new wife, I truly had. Although ours was not a burning love affair, she was a good woman, and did not deserve the hidden perverse nature of her husband. So I remained faithful, and chaste.

I visited Holmes in his new home, occasionally, every few months or so for a weekend in the country. He had been my dearest friend for more than 20 years, and I could no more walk away from him than I could disobey my King. In fact, if the truth be known, I was far more likely to follow Holmes than an order given by any monarch.

Nothing happened between us on my first, second, or even third visit. But on my fourth visit, we had drank perhaps just a little too much, the fire was perhaps was a little too cozy, and Holmes was perhaps sitting a little too close. He grabbed my hand to make a point and we could both feel the spark between us. My breath caught.

“You can say no,” Holmes croaked. “I would understand.”

But I could never deny Holmes or, for that matter, myself. I had never desired anyone as much as Holmes, and I honestly do not think that he had ever desired anyone but me. It was foolish, it was foolhardy, it was dangerous, it was inevitable. I kissed him and we were lost.

I was terribly guilty the next morning, of course. That, however, did not stop my actions, either that day or on subsequent visits.

Yet Holmes saw my guilt and knew, perhaps even more than I, how that pained me. He also knew the peril of our actions. But we could not stop, drawn inexorably toward each other as if we were moths seeking the other’s flame. We thus limited our visits so as to minimize the impact of the risks. Holmes was also initially circumspect with each meeting, allowing me to make the decision to continue. I could always sense his desire, but he wanted to make sure that I was a willing partner and not coerced out of a sense of duty. I can say, although I am conflicted as to whether it should be with pride or with shame, that I never denied him.

We never spent more than a few months apart (although we did not dare to meet more often than that). But the past two years – the time we had been separated by Holmes’ ‘stunt’ (as he had called it) in America – seemed to leave us both desperate with desire and need.

We found the bedroom through a door on the other side of the sitting room, and fell onto the hotel bed. We pulled at each other’s clothes, and exchanged hard, frantic kisses. Holmes’ ridiculous goatee rubbed against me, feeling both abrasive yet strangely erotic.

By the time we lay against each other, naked, skin-to-skin, I felt ready to explode. I forced myself to take a deep breath and saw that Holmes did the same. Our eyes met and I could see strong desire mirrored in his depths. I drew him to me for another kiss, slightly calmer, and held him close.

Eventually I disengaged from his grasp, putting my finger to his lips. “Wait here a moment,” I breathed. I got up and made my way into the sitting room, retrieving my discarded medical bag and rummaging inside it until I found the cream I carried. I walked back into the bedroom; Holmes eyes went wide when he saw what I brought.

I handed the tin to him and then lay back on the bed, face down, in an obvious invitation. I heard Holmes’ breath catch and I understood why, for this was an unusual position for me to take. Yet I needed him, needed to know that he desired me, that he still longed for me after all this time.

He opened the tin and began to prepare me. I panted heavily in both desire and tension. He finished with me and I could sense him preparing himself.

“Turn over,” he whispered to me. “I need to see your face.”

I complied.

He pressed himself into me, a slow, steady pressure, until he was fully embedded. I gave a gentle moan and rose up to meet him.

Holmes thrust, biting my neck and pulling me toward him. “Mine,” he said roughly in my ear and then kissed me there. “You are mine, John Watson.”

I cried out and pulled him further into me, meeting his every thrust. “Yes, yes,” I whimpered brokenly. “I am yours.”

This is what I longed for; this is what I craved – to know, utterly and completely, that I belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

Our passions reached their inevitable climax and we lay together, entwined and utterly spent.

“I’ve missed you, Watson,” said Holmes, his voice gravelly and barely above a whisper.

I did not reply, but drew him to me for a gentle kiss, then laid his head upon my chest. The events of the day must have been more exhausting for us than we had imagined, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

It was quite late when I awoke or, more precisely, quite early the next morning. The bed was empty. I found Holmes in the bathing room, attending to his toilet and shaving off that horrible goatee which ill suited him.

I laughed delightedly and embraced him from behind, kissing his neck gently, and then the side of his face. I could taste the shaving soap upon his skin.

“There’s the Holmes I know,” I exclaimed, looking at our reflection in the mirror. Our eyes met in that looking glass.

“Along with his ever trusted Watson,” he added, giving me one of his rare, genuine smiles. He washed the soap off his face and toweled it dry, then turned to me with a gleam clearly in his eyes.

I kissed his chin, savoring its smoothness.

He met my lips with his own, and we soon found ourselves back in the bedroom. Our lovemaking that morning was slow and gentle, in contrast with the previous night’s wild passions, and left us both sated and content.

Holmes had breakfast served in our room later that morning and gave a quick smile at my quizzical look. “The government is picking up the tab, my dear Watson, and so I shall allow myself a well-deserved splurge after an accomplished mission.”

At the mention of Holmes’ task, I frowned slightly, my thoughts turning to darker current affairs. “You think war is inevitable,” said I, more a statement than a question.

“Yes. In fact it has already begun.”

I nodded. “Then I shall contact my old service and offer my aid.”

Holmes lifted his head to stare at me, his expression utterly aghast. “What? Watson, are you crazed? You are far too old, it is far too dangerous, you cannot—”

He broke off as I lifted my hand for silence. “Men are always injured in wars, Holmes, and there is always need for doctors. You are correct that I am too old to serve at the front lines, but that does not mean that my skills would not be useful elsewhere. The injured, those who are lucky, do return back to England.”

“What if you sign up and you are sent to the fighting? What would you do then?”

“I would serve my country proudly, Holmes, and mend my men as best I could.”

“You cannot know what it would be like, Watson. The danger, the horror—”

“Holmes, of the two of us, I believe that I have the clearest idea of what warfare actually entails.”

He leaned back in his chair and examined my face. I believe that he was weighing my resolve.

“Yet you would still go?” he asked quietly.

“Holmes, you cannot tell me that you will not be busy during this war, serving you country to the best of your skills.”

“Of course I will, but—”

“And you cannot tell me that it will not be dangerous.”

“Yes, but my talents will be necessary, of use, and—”

“It is the same for me, Holmes. I will use my talents to the best advantage of the country.”

He looked at me in silence for a few moments, his face of conflict of horror and respect. “I do not wish you to be hurt,” he finally rasped.

“Nor do I. I also believe that I have said the same to you on numerous occasions.”

“Yes, but that is different.”

“In what way?”

“It is you that is at risk. That is… devastating… to consider.”

I grabbed his hand across the table. “I understand, Holmes. I truly do know how you feel. But we, all of us, must do what is necessary.”

He looked at our joined hands. “I do not like it, Watson.”

“It is still something I must do.”

He nodded and released me. We sat silently, picking at our breakfasts, but neither one of us felt much like eating.

Holmes stood abruptly. “I really must be going, Watson. There are people I must contact with my reports.”

I stood as well. “I understand, Holmes. There are contacts I must make as well.”

“Yes, well then.” He turned and would not face me.

I did not wish to part like this, but I knew of no way to salvage the situation. “Good-bye, Holmes,” I whispered brokenly, grabbing my medical bag and moving toward the door.

“No. No, no, no. You cannot leave like this, Watson.” He hurried after me and pulled me into a fierce embrace.

I held him just as tightly.

“Promise me you’ll come back to me,” he whispered.

“Holmes, I do not know—”

“No. You made me make this vow to you when I left for America, and I was far more cautious than I would have been otherwise. I took much greater care, as you knew I would. Promise me, Watson.”

He held me at arms length and looked directly into my eyes. I could see his emotions, usually so carefully concealed, plainly evident on his face.

“I promise I will come back to you,” I said, very quietly. I leaned in for a kiss, knowing that he would not deny me. This kiss had all the desperation as the ones last night, but instead of desperate passion, this one held desperate fear. Perhaps it also held desperate love.

We broke apart and I gently traced his cheek. “I will see you after the war, Sherlock Holmes.”

“You had better, Dr. John H. Watson.”

I turned from him and walked out the door.


	3. August 1916: Desolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the height of the Great War, Watson writes a letter.

Title: August 1916: Desolation  
Author: Daylyn  
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes  
Pairing: Holmes/Watson  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: Not mine, although actually in the public domain. No profit is intended.

Summary: During the height of the Great War, Watson writes a letter.

Author’s Note: This the third in a 5-part series that will capture moments in time, every other August, from 1912 to 1920 (from the time Holmes leaves for America through the aftermath of the Great War).

 

 

 **August 1916: Desolation**  
By Daylyn

 

Netley, 20 August, 1916

My Dear Holmes,

I sit here, in my stark, small room, on a balmy summer night, composing yet another letter to you. I imagine that you would smile bemusedly at my behavior, since I write to you although I have no idea where you are. I have seen neither hide nor hair of you for these past two years, nor heard a word of your whereabouts. Yet there is a part of me that knows you are alive. I shall add this letter to the collection that I keep, a chronicle of sorts at my time here at Netley Hospital. Who knows? Perhaps one day I shall even have the courage to give these letters to you, and you can again shake your head in bemusement at my fanciful writings.

The hospital continues its gruesome work of treating the wounded, and I fear that a sense of despair pervades the halls as this grotesque war continues. I am still amazed, when I have time to think, that is, that I am ending my military career here at Netley, the same place it all began. Although when I was a freshly-minted (and unbelievable naïve) army surgeon, I had not realized the extent of the problems associated with the Royal Victoria Military Hospital, to give it its formal name. It was merely a place to receive my training and head out to far more exciting locales. Yes, I was young and foolish in those days, Holmes.  
  
I am certain that I have complained of the hospital previously, but the incompetence of the design still galls me. The corridors all have lovely sea breezes and fresh air, while the wards themselves face the inner courtyard and are dark, dismal, and have poor ventilation. I fear such miserable conditions begin to affect morale, both among the patients and even among the staff. Thank goodness for the Red Cross and the huts they built on the grounds, allowing for more beds and better conditions.

Although our casualty rates are low, the overall atmosphere continues to take on a depressive feel as the war grinds on. Many of the men are here to convalesce, yet the military advisors seem to hover about, waiting for their recovery so as to send the freshly (and barely) healed men back to the front lines. There are complaints too, always whispered ones, about the men who suffer from shell-shock, and the belief that these poor souls are somehow “faking” their horrors so as to avoid service. I know, from personal experience, that the conditions of battle, especially when you are wounded, shatter your nerves for years. These “advisors” have obviously never been near a real battle (and would likely suffer great indignities upon themselves if they were to merely venture out on the front lines). From what I understand, fighting conditions have become more deplorable from when I served, if such a thing is even possible.

Yet our job here is to fix up these men so they can be sent back out, where they will either die or suffer more horrors. I truly wonder if we are creating a generation of lost souls. What price must we pay to prevail? Yet the consequences of not winning are equally upsetting.

I am in a maudlin mood.

I wonder, Holmes, if you could see me now, what you would say. My guess is that it would be something along the lines of: ‘Why yes, Watson, this is all very interesting. Now stop dissembling and tell me what is really bothering you.’ Perhaps you would say, ‘Ah Watson, this is not the source of your despair, which is actually caused by the letter in your pocket.’ Who knows, Holmes? You might even say, ‘I see your wife has left you.’

Yes, I received a letter today, Holmes. It is a letter from my wife. Perhaps I should say that it is a letter from my soon to be former wife.

In my previous communications to you (which you have never read, for they are sitting in my trunk as if mocking me with own thoughts and weaknesses; I should probably just burn the lot of them), I mentioned that my wife had gone to America to be with her sister while the war continues. She did not feel comfortable remaining in London on her own, and I am only able to visit rarely. I also know she was dissatisfied with my decision to serve, believing, as you did, that this was the work for younger men.

I could never explain, at least not to her understanding, that this war was different and that I felt utterly compelled to assist. Perhaps I just needed to feel useful again. Perhaps I was just jealous of your adventures after all this time. Perhaps it is some higher calling. I must be here, Holmes, if only to offer these wounded men some brief healing and comfort in the midst of hell.

I exchanged regular correspondence with my wife and had no inkling that anything was amiss, yet today I received word that she had fallen in love with a butcher in New Jersey.

I would love to see your expression right now to see if you are laughing.

She is seeking a divorce, somewhere in the Western states.

I do not even feel sadness or upset over her actions; I only feel regret over my own numerous failures. I was never the husband she was looking for. My heart was always, as you know, engaged elsewhere, with you. How can I begrudge her happiness, since I have been unable (or perhaps unwilling) to provide it myself?

I should have followed your advice all those years ago and never remarried. I would not have hurt her, or myself, or especially you, my dear Holmes. I was so frightened as to what would happen if our secret were to actually become public knowledge. I truly thought I was protecting you, but perhaps I was only being selfish. I did not take into account the emotions of my wife, nor of you, nor even of me, and the difficulties we would face as we tried to lead lives based on falsehoods and fear.

You have told me years ago that you have forgiven me for my panicked response. I can only hope that it is true. I also hope that my wife can one day forgive me for using her as a shield, when I should have stood bravely beside you and accepted the consequences of our affair.

Damn, Holmes, I miss you. Do you realize that this is, essentially, the longest period of time that we have been apart, even including those three years of your supposed death. It has been four years (well, technically, two years while you were in America, one day of respite, and now two more years of war). I was so used to turning to you, Holmes, for over 35 years. There is now such emptiness in my heart.

I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I always have.

Yes, I know I should burn this letter.

You will be pleased to know that I considered my vow to you to remain safe, and did not rush off into certain danger (and likely death). There is a shortage of medical personnel at the fronts, and they asked for volunteers from the doctors and nurses here. I truly think they would have considered me, despite my advanced years, as they were so desperate. I knew, however, that I would be in daily danger, and I could not bear the thought of meeting you in the afterlife and seeing your stern, disapproving face as you cried, ‘Watson, I thought you had better sense than that!’

Do not worry, Holmes. Not even after today’s news from the soon to be former Mrs. Watson will I rush to the front. I plan to live and long to see you again when this is all over.

On a lighter note, I did receive a bit of amusing correspondence from our old friend, Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle. It seems that he was asked what you were doing during the War while at some event (in France, I believe), and surprised, he uttered that you were too old to serve. Of course, that led him to enquire as to what, exactly, you were actually up to. I informed him that I did not, exactly, know, but gave him a few details of our last encounter. Of course, he wishes me to write a story. I do not know if I feel up to such an endeavor at this time Holmes. Perhaps I will just let him spin one out of cloth.

Well, the night grows late and I must attempt to get a few hours of sleep (even though such an enterprise will likely be futile tonight). It would amuse you, I think, to see your old housemate arising a five in the morning to make my medical rounds. I doubt that my early morning disposition has improved throughout the years.

As always, I remain,

Very sincerely yours,  
John Watson


	4. August 1918: Renewal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years into the Great War, as influenza begins to sweep the land, Watson receives a visitor.

Title: August 1918: Renewal  
Author: Daylyn  
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes  
Pairing: Holmes/Watson  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Not mine, although actually in the public domain. No profit is intended.

Summary: Four years into the Great War, as influenza begins to sweep the land, Watson receives a visitor.

Author’s Note: This is the fourth in a 5-part series that captures moments in time, every other August, from 1912 to 1920 (from the time Holmes leaves for America through the aftermath of the World War I).

 

 **August 1918: Renewal**  
By Daylyn

 

The young man finally stopped coughing. I handed him a cloth and patted him on the shoulder. “Here you go, Johnson.”

He tried to smile. “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“You’re doing remarkably well,” said I as encouragingly as possible.

Both of our eyes darted to the empty bed next to him where a fellow soldier from his unit had succumbed to the dreaded Spanish influenza the night before.

“I hope so,” he whispered. I could hear the fear in his voice.

I did not like to make predictions, especially with a man’s life. I felt confident that young Johnson would recover, but there were too many complications and too much could go wrong. Besides, I had been wrong before. So I patted his shoulder again.

I felt utterly ineffectual.

My weariness threatened to overwhelm me. We had been fighting the flu for so many months now and with such limited success. I was also exhausted, I knew, both from my current 24 hour stint in the hospital as well as the four years of slogging through the War itself. I took a deep, steadying breath and then forced myself to turn my attention back to the young soldier before me.

“I am sorry to bother you, Dr. Watson,” the night nurse said as she interrupted my examination. “But there is a gentleman here to see you.”

I glanced to door that she indicated and there, standing at the entrance to the ward, was a tall, thin man whose dark hair had gone grey. He was wearing a surgical mask, as was required of anyone who was entering this flu-infested ward. I recognized him nonetheless. My heart gave a little beat.

I swallowed around the sudden dryness in my mouth as the bright grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes met my own from across the room.  
  
I looked down at my patient, and gave him another attempt at encouragement. “I think we’re finished here, Johnson. Just cooperate with the nurses when they give you those fluids.”

Both the young soldier and the nurse smiled at me, the nurse’s eyes crinkling above her mask. “We’ll take care of him, Doctor,” the she replied. “Why don’t you go meet with your visitor?”

I nodded to them both, then turned and made my way toward Holmes. I tried not to hurry, or to at least make it so that my quickness was not too noticeable.

I came to stand before my dearest friend, the man I had not seen for four years during this long, painful War. We both observed each other’s eyes closely, noting the changes that the years had wrought. It seemed that neither of us could speak.

“Holmes,” I finally managed to croak.

“Are you free for supper?” he asked, the well-remembered voice sounding slightly raspy.

I frowned slightly, about to refuse, knowing I had a responsibility to my patients, before that wonderful night nurse interjected herself into our, to be honest, rather lacking conversation.

“Yes, he is,” she said firmly. “Dr. Watson has been here since yesterday, and it is high time to leave the hospital and head home for some sleep, after a good meal, that is.”

“Excellent!” Holmes exclaimed.

I looked quickly between the two of them. “I have a duty to my patients,” I said quietly and controlled.

“How will you be any good to these men if you work yourself until you collapse, Doctor?” the night nurse admonished. “When was the last time you rested? Or ate?”

Holmes looked utterly amused to see me being the one bullied.

“My body is here to be used,” I replied calmly, with a quick glance to Holmes.

The increased crinkling around Holmes’ eyes were the only signs of his suppressed laughter. The nurse, however, looked like she was going to fly into a rage.

“That is preposterous,” she exclaimed. “You need some rest, Doctor.”

“The influenza…” I began.

“Will still be here in the morning,” she responded. “Get out of here. The nursing staff is here in full force, and Dr. Garris can help out if we need him.”

I met Holmes’ eyes again. “Well, as I am essentially being chased from my duties, give me a moment to wash up and I will be right with you.”

I could feel myself trembling as I quickly washed. I do not know if it was from exhaustion or excitement. Holmes was waiting for me when I was finished. I could see his full face now without the mask. He picked up a bag he had with him and then smiled at me. “Shall we go, Watson?”

I nodded and led the way, still barely able to speak. I glanced at him, frequently, as we walked, almost as if I believed him to be an apparition that would disappear into the ether as unexpectedly as he had appeared.

“Is there someplace to eat at this hour?” he asked, his voice quiet.

I looked at my watch and was surprised by the late time. “There’s a pub about a half mile from here that will usually feed the hospital staff at all hours.”

“Lead the way,” said he, and then made as if to link his arm in mine, stopping himself suddenly as if deciding his gesture was inappropriate.

I could not stop myself. I completed the gesture, linking my arm in his. I could feel his tension melt from his limb. He flashed me a quick smile.

The pub was dark and a bit overcrowded, considering the time. It was also warm, although not surprising for a summer night. Yet there was a feeling of comfort about the place, an almost refuge from the trials of the times outside its doors. I breathed in the cigarette smoke and listened to the dull noise. I turned to Holmes, who looked surprisingly at home.

We managed to procure a corner table, emptied from a fellow physician who was departing. Holmes and I sat across from each other in a tense silence.

“The shepherd’s pie is acceptable,” I finally said, “but I would warn against the beef stew. It is… rather interesting in flavor.”

“The shepherd’s pie it is then,” he said with a slight smile.

Our food and ale arrived and we looked at it in silence. It appeared that neither one of us knew what to say.

“What have you been doing?” I finally blurted out. “Where have you been?”

I managed to avoid asking, ‘Why haven’t I seen you?’, but only barely.

Holmes looked at me in surprise.

“I am sorry,” said I, my face flushing. “I am certain there are many aspects of your current activities that you cannot tell me. I just merely…” missed you, I almost said. “…wanted to know how you are,” I finally completed lamely.

Holmes looked down at his plate as if contemplating what to say. I am certain he could discern the question and comment I had not made.

“I am currently working with a government agency formed by my brother,” he began quietly, almost hesitantly. “You remember Mycroft, of course.”

I nodded. “He must be getting older.”

Holmes smiled. “Yes, but aren’t we all? His mind is the same and his ability to sort information remains _sans parallel_.”

“So you gather information? Similar to what you were doing in America then?”

“Yes, in a way. There is always information that is being sought, especially during a war. A little bit of deceit, a little bit of misdirection, and a little bit of truth, all combined together, can lead to the discovery of fascinating strategies.”

Holmes put up a clever front, but I could detect a sense of quiet discontent.

“You seem troubled, my friend,” I said to him.

His smile was genuine. “Only you, Watson, have ever been able to read the secrets I keep. There are parts of me that not even my brother can detect that you somehow sense.”

I swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat. “What is bothering you, Holmes?” I asked.

He leaned back and took a swig of his ale. “For the most part nothing, Watson. There are times, however, when I believe that some of the people we… observe… are a waste of our resources and time.”

I must have looked puzzled.

He continued, “Anyone who opposes the fighting has become suspect. While some may have their loyalty, potentially, in question, a good many are simply tired of the long war. Yet the organization for which I am currently engaged, which began as small and under Mycroft’s control, has become large and now has too many leaders occupied with their own personal agendas.”

“You shouldn’t be telling me this, should you?”

Holmes shook his head. “Of course not.” He then gave me his little half smile, which always had the ability to melt my heart. “But who else would I tell, my dear Watson?”

I reached out and took his hand. “Thank you. I appreciate your confidence.”

His hand closed around me. I swallowed, hard.

“Is there anything you can do about the situation?” I asked.

“No, Watson, not really. We’ve all become far too paranoid, and any attempt to question our practices brings about scrutiny. Besides, there are times, many times in fact, where the information we do gather is absolutely crucial. You must forgive me, Watson. I seem to be feeling a bit melancholy tonight.”

“Are you in much danger with what you do?” I enquired, dreading the answer but needing to know.

His head shook slightly. He squeezed my hand once more briefly and then let go. “No more than I have been in most of my life. I continue to take care, after all. I did promise you I would.”

I smiled and blinked away tears that I was sure were caused by the smoke in the pub.

“What of you, my dear Watson? What news comes from the respected medical community?”

I sighed, feeling slightly morose. “Influenza. Influenza is our big news.”

“Are you currently working on an influenza ward?”

“Fairly soon the whole hospital will be an influenza ward.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Probably worse. We are essentially powerless to cure it and it is spreading, fast. It also effects the young and healthy, and the damage is devastating. I fear that the death toll from the flu will far exceed the death toll from the fighting, and that is a terrible outcome to contemplate.”

“We had heard rumors that it was widespread. I had not, however, realized the extent of the danger.”

I took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. “I have never felt so ineffective, Holmes, as I do watching these men die,” I found myself admitting. “They are so frightened, sometimes more frightened than they are from the battle, and I can do nothing.”

This time it was Holmes who grabbed my hand. “I am certain that you are doing all you can, Doctor.”

“Yes, but it will never be enough.”

We sat there in silence for a moment, yet it was both comfortable and comforting to have Holmes nearby. The pub continued on with its own busy life around us.

Eventually my weariness threatened to overwhelm me. “Holmes, my sincere apologies, but I honestly cannot recall the last time I slept. I must make my way to my bed.”

“Of course, Watson.”

A realization suddenly hit me as I eyed his bag. “Holmes, where are you staying?”

He started a bit and then smiled falsely. “I had not made plans yet for the evening. Perhaps the proprietor of this fine pub can point me in the direction of lodging.”

“Don’t be silly. Come home with me.”

He actually looked a bit startled. “Won’t that be difficult?” he asked cautiously.

“I am currently in a boarding house, not far from here. My landlady is a lovely widow; she reminds me a bit of Mrs. Hudson, but without her tendency to try and mother me. You would like her, I think. Nonetheless, because of my strange hours with the hospital, I have the only bedroom on the ground floor, so it is unlikely that we would disturb anyone. Besides, we have certainly shared quarters before during your cases, as well as other times.” I actually found myself blushing slightly, but continued on. “It would be no hardship now to have you as my guest, Holmes.”

This time, it seemed that it was Holmes who was moved to the point where speech was difficult. “Lead on, friend Watson,” he finally rasped.

We strolled through the now mostly quiet town, in which most of the residents had long since sought their beds. We made our way to the boarding house where I was staying. I led Holmes into my room.

He looked around, his quick grey eyes taking in the starkness of the place, scanning the bed, my army trunk, the wardrobe, my little writing desk. I realized that nothing in the room reflected my personality. Although I had been here for four years, I had never made it my home. The only memento I had displayed was the framed letter Holmes had written me at Reichenbach Falls, all those years ago.

Holmes looked at me quizzically.

I tried to smile. “It was the only thing that I could bring that reminded me of you,” I explained in a hushed tone.

“How is Mrs. Watson?” he suddenly asked, and I could hear the concern in my voice.

I realized then that Holmes did not actually know what had befallen me two years ago and how my now former wife had found new love in America. Instead of answering him, I walked to my trunk and pulled out a stack of letters, all addressed to Holmes. Four years of correspondence, with my thoughts, my feelings, my fears all plainly exposed. I quickly walked back to him before I could change my mind. “These are for you,” I said quietly, holding out the stack.

He hesitated for a moment.

“Unless you don’t want them,” said I.

He snatched them from my hand.

“They are probably quite maudlin,” I warned.

He smiled. “As well as sentimental, I am sure. I would expect nothing less.”

“You will probably have to burn them after reading them.”

“I shall take that into account.”

We stood there for a moment, watching each other, with an odd feeling of awkward comfort. “Let me get ready for bed,” I said finally. “There is a washroom down the hall. I shall just be a moment and then you can use it.” I turned to go.

He grabbed my arm. I looked back into his eyes.

“Watson,” said he, “I cannot repay you for this.” He indicated the letters. “I have no such record of my time during this War.”

I nodded. “I understand, Holmes.”

“I will, however, tell you that I am heading to France. We began an offensive there earlier this month, in Amiens, which actually seems to be quite effective. I will not go near the fighting, I promise you. But I will be gathering more information, as well as infiltrating any secret organizations in France and rooting out potential spies.”

“You are not supposed to tell anyone that, are you?”

“No. Only Mycroft and a handful of his most trusted advisors know what I am doing.”

“You will be careful.”

“Always.”

I clasped his shoulder. “Thank you for letting me know. I think that not knowing where you were, or what you were doing, made the past few years more difficult.”

“My apologies, my dear Watson. Unfortunately, I was not free to make my own decisions during this time.”

“I understand.”

He lifted the letters up and considered them. “Also know,” said he, “that I will not be able to keep these on my person for fear that they would expose my true identity. I will, however, assure you that I will read them, all of them, before I find a way to safely dispose of them.”

I nodded.

He pushed me gently. “Go get ready for bed, Watson. You look ready to collapse.”

I hurried through my toilet, and then sent Holmes down to the washroom. I was already in bed, half asleep, when he returned in his nightshirt. He looked momentarily uncertain.

I held up the sheet. “Come here,” I said coaxingly, my voice slurred with weariness.

He turned down the light and slid into the bed next to me.

I felt his warmth beside me. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “So tired…” I was asleep before I could even finish my thought.

_I could not see their faces, but I could feel their hands upon me as they attempted to drag me to the ground. I could make out their uniforms, covered with soot, and gunpowder, and blood. Always blood._

_“You didn’t save me,” one cried, his accusations reverberating through the silence. “You call yourself a doctor, yet you let me die.”_

_I tried to defend myself, but no words would come._

_“You let us all die.”_

_One face became clear—the man who had died last night, succumbing to influenza. I realized that I did not even remember his name._

_I tried to scream, to escape, but to no avail. I could feel their cold hands upon me, pulling downward, ever downward—_

_“WATSON!”_

I awoke with a start to find the worried eyes of Sherlock Holmes looking down upon me.

“Watson?” he said, quietly this time.

I gasped for air and found myself both profoundly relieved and terribly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Holmes,” I finally managed to rasp. “I should have realized I would disturb you. Let me—”

I began to struggle with the bedclothes in an attempt to rise, to get away from my humiliation at Holmes’ witnessing of my weakness. Holmes, however, pulled me to him, placing my head upon his chest and holding me tight. Despite myself, I began to feel my tension drain.

“As you know,” he said quietly, his hand gently stroking my hair, “I am no stranger to nightmares. How long have you been suffering so?”

I snorted. “Four years now. Give or take.”

His hand stilled for a moment and then resumed its caress. “You deal with the day-to-day horrors that I never see, my dear doctor. I think, of the two of us, you really are the hero in this tale.”

I did not know what to say. I raised my head to look at him, our faces inches from each other. He looked at my lips as I looked at his, then our gazes met once more.

The first kiss was gentle, tender. Holmes cupped my chin and brought his lips to mine. I breathed a sigh of relief mixed with longing. I felt more comfort lying in that bed with Holmes than I had at any time since the War started, possibly even longer than that.

Our kisses remained slow and gentle. It was, after all, the middle of the night, and we moved at a pace appropriate for both our age and our bone-infused weariness. Yet kissing Holmes was, as always, a sensual delight. I thought, briefly, about how very appropriate it felt when I lay with Holmes and how there had been no one else in my life who had made me feel so complete. I was more than myself when I was with Holmes, whether assisting on his cases or reading in our sitting room. Or even, as like now, making love.

Then Holmes’ kisses began to trail down my neck and I ceased thinking at all.

He helped me to remove my pajamas and then tenderly kissed my chest, my nipples, my stomach, moving his way inexorably down my body. My breath was faster and my passion rising. When he finally took my manhood in his mouth, slowly teasing me, I was mad with desire for him.

But it wasn’t enough. I needed to feel him, to taste him, to be one with him. I managed to convince him to turn around and remove his nightshirt. As he returned to his endeavor, I took him in my mouth, reveling in the fact that he was as hard and needy for me as I was for him.

Time stopped. All thoughts of war and horror and nightmares faded away. I was one with Holmes—my lover, my partner, my friend. We held each other in a tight line, suckling each other, fueling our desire, our lust, our need, and, ultimately, our love.

I have always enjoyed having Holmes in my mouth while I was in his. It felt like a complete circle of passion, of longing. Our pleasure spiraled, and I lost myself in this moment of brief perfection.

Eventually it had to end. I lay back, sated, content, yet slightly bereft as reality came crashing back again. Fortunately Holmes turned around and lay back down beside me, kissing me gently. I would not have had the energy to make such a move.

I do not know if I clung to him or he to me, but we held each other tight as I lay my head upon his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

The next sound I heard was the unpleasantness of my alarm clock. Holmes looked startled as he awoke. I turned off the bell then smoothed his brow. I ran my fingers through his hair.

“Hush,” said I. “Go back to sleep. I just have to get ready to return to the hospital.”

“It is awfully early,” Holmes complained, glaring at the darkness out the window.

I smiled. “I know. Believe me, I know.” I kissed his forehead and slipped out of bed, making my way to the washroom to prepare for the long day ahead.

When I returned, Holmes was sitting up. The grey light of pre-dawn was now shimmering through the window, illuminating his pale bare chest, his grey hair, his grey eyes. I stopped at the foot of the bed to take in the sight. He looked utterly beautiful to me.

He gazed at me quizzically.

“You’ll be gone by the time I leave the hospital tonight, won’t you?” I managed to ask.

He nodded.

“I will not see you again during the War, will I?”

He shook his head. “It is doubtful.”

A painful lump developed in my throat. I came to the head of the bed; Holmes watched me closely all the while. I leaned down and kissed him violently, passionately, desperately.

“I do not know how much longer I can do this,” I admitted brokenly.

He grabbed my hand, twining our fingers, then reached out with his other hand to stroke my face. “Do not give up hope, Watson. You always provided me with such an unending supply of it. This War _will_ end. I swear to you. Our offensive is working, the end will come. Just hold on a little bit longer and have faith, my dear Watson. For me.”

I smiled and nodded. “For you, Holmes. I would do anything for you. Even continue to hope.”

He leaned up and we kissed again, more gently this time, an affirmation of our commitment to each other.

“I will see you after the War, Watson.”

“I will be waiting for you.”

I turned to leave but stopped at the door. “Stay here as long as you need to, Holmes. No one will bother you.”

“Thank you. Take care of yourself, Watson.”

I smiled. “You too, Holmes.”

I turned and left the building, walking out into the breaking dawn. My step was lighter than it had been in years.


End file.
